Lost And Found. A Story.

He was lost. He was sure of it.

The fog was tight around his body, throwing angled shadows on the dirt path leading west. Was this even west anymore?

Well I don't know if I'm wrong,
Cause she's only just gone,

The Alsace region of the Franco-Germanic lands was green and rolling, but the lush lands were masked under the heavy fog.

Draco pressed the deck of tarot cards to his thigh, they settled in the pocket of his worn breeches. How long had he been walking?

Summer had passed in a slow torture, endless nights kept counting stars. Counting them. Counting them instead of thinking of Matilde. He told himself their stories, losing more sleep than he believed anyone could stand, watch the sun blot out the tiny night lights.

The fall had come, wet and sticking, the season bringing leaves of every shade and size. The pine groves were spotted with auburns and golds, and he found himself thinking steadily of Paris, memories of Matilde blazing across his mind every time he pressed those cards to his thigh. His prayer.

And he thought of Harry. His quick smile, his verdant gaze. His laughter.

Where was he? Would he keep his promise?

He had met Harry that night and taken off. This journey was all because of one night's haste. He was putting so much on chance, a stranger's glance in a pub. That brief conversation under the stars.

He felt sick. Desperate. He didn't know what he was looking for.

Here's to another relationship
Bombed by excellent breed of gamete's disease,
I'm sure when I'm older I'll know what that means.

And the strangest part was that he felt better, still.

Living in Munster, given love by Petrissa and Gaufried, given a purpose in life; it had all been so comfortable, so comforting. But every step he'd taken, it wasn't his own. He'd been trying to fill someone else's shoes. He'd been trying to be like those townsfolk - he had thought for so long that he wanted to be like them. To be normal. To have what they had.

But even with the aches of his past, the callouses on his hands, the bruises on his feet from walking so many miles - he was free. He was alive in a way that a comfortable living could never give him.

She cried when she should and she laughed when she could,
Here's to the man with his face in the mud.

The winter had been cold, and he'd found shelter in warm inns, so grateful for the money Petrissa had given him before his leave.

One night he'd found himself facing the heavy falling snow with no town or village for miles around, and he'd taken shelter in a fortunate cave a ways off the roads. The alcove was small, and he lit a steady fire at it's mouth, remembering the ways the gypsies had made their camps, keeping the smoke from choking the small space.

He'd heard stories from Matilde of the monsters within such caves, the dragons and griffins that emerged to feast on sheep and cattle. When he was young, those stories lit him up with awe, excitement to find such beasts, and now those stories were dull wounds in his heart.

And an overcast play just taken away,
From the lover's in love at the centre of stage, yeah.

As the night had drawn on, the fire shedding its final embers, Draco woke from his light slumber with a start. A shape pressed in from the drifting flakes of snow, snorting and licking its chops, it's massive presence nearing the mouth of the cave.

He froze, eyes wide in shock. What was this? A dragon? Adrenaline rushed through his veins, his limbs twitched with want to move, but he stay put. His instincts overrode his fear; the human nature to face the terror.

Loving is fine if you have plenty of time,
For walking on stilts at the edge of your mind.
Loving is good if your dick's made of wood,
And the dick left inside only half understood her.

The hulking form sniffed the ash of the former fire, snorting in its dislike as it proceeded to enter it's home.

The beast yawned, facing Draco, and he saw the bear's wide set of sharp teeth, glistening against his mahogany fur. It's claws could kill him. It's teeth could tear him apart.

He pressed his body against the wall of the cave, one hand tightly gripping his satchel of belongings. He needed to escape. He had to get out.

And then the beast turned its attention to him. It lifted it's great head, catching him in deep, savage eyes. He was lost.

What makes her come and what makes her stay?
What make the animal run, run away?

It stepped forwards on strong legs, clambering on all fours. Draco closed his eyes, awaiting the worst.

He gasped when he felt the bear's moist breath hit his skin, it was so very close. He opened his eyes once more, and found himself face to face with the creature; eye to eye, nose to nose.

The animal made a noise in the back of his throat, pressing it's muzzle so lightly to Draco's chest, before looking back up at him and turning it's back, settling itself in the back of the cave.

What makes him stall, what makes him stand?
And what shakes the elephant now,
And what makes a man?

His heart beating like a hammer, Draco grabbed his satchel and dashed from the cave. He ran to the path, to civilization, to the west or east or wherever people where. What had just happened in this savage garden?

He stumbled across snow covered stones, falling to his knees, surprised by the cold, damp tears falling down his cheeks.

What had happened?

I don't know,
I don't know,
I don't know.

He lifted his hand to his chest, where the bear had touched; where it could have devoured him, where it chose to walk away.

His fingers hit warm silver, and he tugged on the necklace Matilde had given him that first night.

"Keep this on, for protection, bird child."

Her words echoed in his ears and he flung himself to the ground, curling like he had the night Blaise's band of children had thrown him to the wilderness.

He kept running. He was always running. He had run from Blaise. He had run from the gypsies; he'd run from his memories of Matilde. He ran from Munster, from Ginny. What the hell was he running from? Why was he so afraid to fight?

No I don't know you any more,
No, no, no, no...

He sat up, assessing his surroundings and noting the direction of the roads. The tears had stopped, and his head was clearer. In so many ways, he recognized he was still a child.

And he would have to work on that.

Spring had begun to spread over the earth once again, and he had rejoiced in the warming sun. But the lands he traveled were riddled with dense fogs, and he often found himself unsure of where the roads led. He had taken to reading the tarot cards, reciting the words Matilde had religiously whispered in the night as a mantra. He needed to see what was left in Paris. He needed to see where his fate would lead him.

I don't know if I'm wrong,
'Cause shes only just gone.

His hair nearly reached his shoulders, and he was surprised at the fast growth of the gold locks. He stood tall, and broad, his lean figure having been honed by nature over the years. His clothes were rough from wear, but Petrissa had fitted him with several garments for his travels.

Why the fuck is this day taking so long?

And as the sun sank deep inside the earth and the luminous stars lit across the foggy world, he saw a far away glow.

His steps grew faster in anticipation. He nearly broke into a run as the road became littered with homes, and soon the street was cobbled and surrounded by great bricked buildings reaching higher than he could have fathomed.

Even in this late hour, the streets were covered in movement. People of every class raced about, dodging carriages the sizes of homes - shiny, black lacquered homes.

He stood still amidst the crowds, taking in the essence of this metropolis. The women in laced, low cut dresses following men in silk jackets and waistcoats, perfectly curved top hats over their swirling mustached smiles. There were beggars walking in rags, there were children selling roses, there were drunk and bawdy men dressed in stained satin and carrying painted women on both arms. And over everything, over the masses and the carriages and the buildings, there was the gleam of gas lamps.

He had never seen anything more exhilarating. It was like fireflies had been bottled to light every street corner, and there was no darkness. Even the stars were blotted out.

Draco crept the streets, absorbing everything that seemed to be Paris. There were so many cafes, art galleries, dance halls... he was unsure how to find anything, should he want to find something. Where would the Salon de la Mer Royale be? Where would Harry be?

He had thought of him so much and wondered if he was real, if he hadn't just been some figment or phantom telling him to leave Munster and find something real. His travels had been marked by jags of depression in those early months, dreams of Ginny's smile, wondering why he'd ever left her comfort.

Here, in the wild pine groves of Europe, and in the urban jungle of Paris, there was no comfort. His every footstep was careful, one wrong move could cost him. And he didn't have much to pay with. But then, did he really have much to lose, either?

He found an inn and took a room for the night, drawing his first hot bath in too many nights and settling onto the floor by the hearth of his room. Beds had become inconsequential to him, after years of sleeping on the ground to gaze at the stars, they only brought the heavy memories of Petrissa's home. Would he ever return to her? Was Ginny already married in Munster?

I was a lover of time and once she was mine,
I was a lover indeed, I was covered in weed.

His heart ached, and he pushed the thoughts away, shakily taking the deck of cards from the pocket of the breeches he wore during the day.

He pulled the deck from their silk pack, devoutly handling the small cuts of thick paper, laying them in patterns on Matilde's old silk scarf - just another relic from her box of secrets.

Slowly and delicately he turned each card, words slipping from his mouth like the babble of a river.

He sighed, seeing his prayer repeated across the floor. Every time, the cards always pointed him to the Queen of Cups. And he didn't know what that meant at all.

He fell asleep restlessly, wishing he knew where his home was.

Cried when she should and she laughed when she could,
Well closer to god is the one who's in love.

As the sun started its ascent, he put on his nicest ensemble, though the gray breeches he wore were tighter than he last wore them the year before. He carefully tied the cravat above the double-breasted, white waistcoat and tucked the black, double-breasted overcoat beneath his arm, as the day felt too warm for such heavy attire. Before he left, he tied his lengthy hair with a silk ribbon, knowing his gold hair would stand out among the many short, cropped hairstyles of men in fashion.

Walking out into the streets of Paris as the sun's rays glinted across it's buildings, he was surprised to see the streets equally busy as the night before, though with many more merchant carts and far less drunken pseudo-aristocrats.

He walked a bit, knowing he would manage to get himself lost in the immense city. Ducking in a small shop with clear, paned glass in their storefront, he asked a clerk where the Salon de la Mer Royale could be located, and was met with a stiff glance.

"Monsieur, are you sure you seek this place?" The attendant looked to him with a hint of disdain, "It is for people of a more - ehem - prominent standing."

Draco looked down his nose at the man, much as he had seen Petrissa do whilst she gossiped with the local women of Munster - with a mixture of indifference and arrogance.

"Is there something you are trying to say, citizen? Or will you be telling me where the Salon is?" Draco's heart beat fast; he was no good at social cues as Petrissa had been, nor was he quick of words as Gaufried had been - the knowledge he had gained from the world rested in the small book of cards pressed between his thigh and his breeches.

However, the attendant managed to look small and unimportant as he gave directions, handing Draco a loaf of bread as he left.

The walk to the Salon was quick and painless, yet his breathing was heavy against the spring air. The city, so full of movement and scents and sights, sent his senses beyond their limit, and he felt the anticipation rise against his chest. There was so much doubt.

What would he do once he was there? How should he act? Was his hair appropriate?

The building was nestled between what seemed to be an art gallery and a cafe. It had an elegant front, the architecture focused on smooth curves and lines, yet it was still grand to behold. He approached the marble staircase with the last strains of stress coursing through his veins, before taking a deep breath and settling his hand on the door.

It was loud.

He hadn't known what to expect, but the stately looking men around the room, lounging in lush couches and wearing silks and velvet, drinking deeply from goblets of wine and ale and laughing about the room... This was not quite what he had envisioned.

He walked about, a few sober men eyeing his attire and nodding slowly with approval, whilst other patrons grabbed what waitresses walked about and pulled them to their laps under the pretense of telling them stories. It was an upscale version of the pubs he'd entered in Munster. The only differences between the Salon and the beer halls in german lands was the building itself.

Turning another corner, he stilled his feet and felt his heart drop. With his dark hair and emerald eyes, pink lips pulled into a mischievous smile, Harry sat on an ottoman across from a woman with a powdered white wig, the girl's cheeks pinched pink and his hand resting comfortably on her thigh.

And I walk away cause I can,
Too many options may kill a man.

Draco turned quickly to leave, pushing past velvet coats and golden cufflinks, and as he stepped into the day's light, he breathed deeply - finding himself disgusted with Parisian air.

Why had he come? What did he think would be so different? He was as he always was. He was alone.

The sound of his boots scuffing the cobblestone streets echoed lightly with the ruckus of the metropolis. A few vendors called out to him, asking him to buy their wares, and he noticed an array of colored carts and carriages ahead, bringing back sharp memories of sleeping in behind turquoise tarps under the stars.

Loving is fine if it's not in your mind,
But I've fucked it up now, too many times.

A soft hand grabbed at his shoulder, pulling him back, and he jumped away from the grasp, shouting at this intruder.

"I don't wish to buy your--!" His blue eyes met a viridescent gaze as he faced Harry. The man's silk coat pulled tightly across his form, the long sleeves revealing the lean muscle of his shoulders. Harry stood confidently, practiced in the art of the heeled dress shoes, as he looked at Draco with the smallest smirk across his lips.

"I thought you wouldn't come." Harry's words were simple. His voice was music.

"I... I wasn't sure that I would." Draco's heart would surely beat itself out of his chest.

Loving is good if it's not understood,
Yeah, but I'm the professor,
And feel that I should know.

Harry took Draco's hand and walked forward, pulling through the grimy streets, talking slowly and pointing out different streets, buildings, identifying places of interest.

Draco shook his head at himself. His steps were even, his senses hung on Harry's every word. He took in the sight of the curve of Harry's arm more than the home of whatever Count or Countess that had met Mademoiselle Guillotine.

What was this feeling?

As the sun sank, and their feet reached a bridge crossing the Seine, the moonlight playing against the rippling currents of the river - Harry leaned back across the railing of the bridge, his eyes trailing the stars.

"Do you remember when you told me every tale of the stars in the sky?" Harry's voice never wavered. Draco was certain her must never have been unsure in his life.

What makes her come and what makes her stay?
What make the animal run, run away?

"Yes. The tales of Draco, of Orion, of Sagittarius and Capricorn." Draco's words were mere whispers in the wind, his heart still beating in his throat.

Harry pulled the blond closer, his strong fingers tugging on the fabric of Draco's waistcoat, bringing their noses near touching.

"Why did you come to meet me, Draco?" His voice was breathy, yet his words hung heavy between them.

What makes him tick apart from his prick?
And the lonelier side of the jealousy stick...

"I needed to see you. I needed to see for myself what was out here."

And as the words tumbled from his mouth, Harry pressed his lips against Draco's. Draco's mind became a blank stone, the soft tongue sliding across his bottom lip, teasing him with small bites and soft noises.

I don't know,
I don't know,
I don't know...

The kiss intensified, and Draco was holding Harry's form against his, firm hands running down his back and across his hips.

Harry broke away from the blond and walked swiftly, pulling him by the arm and laughing, as they headed back to the heart of Paris.

No I don't know,
I don't know,
I don't know...

Draco woke to the splash of sunrise filtering through the curtained window panes and turned to avoid the disruption, his chest pressing to Harry's warm arm. The brunette lay next to him with a blissful smile across his face even in sleep, his porcelain features elegant and peaceful in a way he could never achieve.

Harry was something he could never be at peace with.

The noise of the Parisian streets was winding up, and he knew the noise would gain as the sun grew in the sky. It was busy in the streets, it was busy in his mind, and for every sweet breath he took beside him, he felt himself losing oxygen.

He slipped from the warm sheets and dressed himself in silence.

Taking his belongings, he pulled the talisman from around his neck and rubbed at the pendent before pressing it to Harry's chest, lifting his hand one last time to caress his olive-toned cheek.

Draco's hand was on the brass door knob as the green-eyed man clutched the talisman and looked to him, beseechingly from the bed, "Draco... You don't have to go."

The blond turned back, his blue eyes clear, "But I do, Harry. This is not my place."

The brunette smiled softly and sadly, "I know. Paris is so much more than what you need. And I do hope you find your place, Draco. You've managed to find a place in my heart, if all else fails."

He simply smiled at the man, "You will always be my Queen of Cups, Harry."

And with that, he left for the Parisian streets.

Well I don't know if I'm wrong,
'Cause she's only just gone.

Making his way across the merchants selling their wares and children racing about the streets, a young boy knocked into him and he felt the boy reach into the pocket of his coat.

He held the boy's hand still and looked into his small brown eyes, noticing the yellow and red smears of stage make up that didn't seem to wash completely off.

"Where is Blaise?" He asked the boy, more harsh than he had intended.

The small boy pointed down the road, "Master Blaise is at the carriage!"

He released the child and followed it's small steps to a brightly decorated carriage, where two boys were acting before a small crowd. One boy swooned as the other stabbed at him with a fake sword, and the crowd clapped and laughed, placing coins in a hat held by a sharply dressed Italian man in his mid-twenties. His dark lashes could have made any woman blush, and his full lips were accented by a Roman nose. He laughed dramatically as he announced the end of the performances for the day.

Draco stepped forward, he hadn't seen Blaise since he had run away from the camp fire so many years ago. Would this man even remember him?

A squat man only a few summers older than Draco came from behind the carriage, his brown hair dirty and his lips covering crooked teeth. That was Theo, he was sure of it. The man even held a fox fur poking out from a satchel slung across his chest.

Blaise was suddenly before him, with a slight sneer on his face his voice haughty and smooth, "Yes, sir, can I help you? Our boys are no longer performing for the day."

Draco smiled, "It's so good to see you're still the same, Blaise."

The man in front of him gave a look of surprise and quickly recovered, "Do I know you, sir?"

Draco simply laughed and turned to walk away. The boy he was had grown up, and the man that stood now with tarot prayers in his pocket could never be touched by this Italian man-boy.

But Blaise had other ideas. He grasped Draco's coat and urged him turn around, "I said, do I know you, sir?"

Draco, placing a hand over Blaise's own, said in a grating voice, "You would do well to, sir, or release me."

Blaise's anger seemed to fade a bit as he took in the long golden curls, "Perhaps you would step aside to my carriage with me, sir? And we can discuss this further."

But upon reaching the shade of the carriage, Blaise pulled a familiar cane from nearby and held it threateningly, sidling Draco to back into the frame of the cart.

"It would do you well to remind me who you are, sir." Blaise's voice was menacing and mocking, much as it always had been, and for the briefest of moments Draco felt a cold chill run across his spine as he realized the weight of the talisman on his neck could no longer protect him.

No gypsy magic could protect him from his childhood.

Here's to another relationship
Bombed by my excellent breed of gamete disease,
I finished it off with some French wine and cheese.

A heavy hand descended on Blaise's shoulder and pulled him back roughly, "Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"

Green eyes met blue as Draco looked on in astonishment. Harry was standing confidently before Blaise, ever a picture of higher social standing, and giving him a look of indifference.

"I believe you carriage is unmarked by the Parisian merchant papers, ought I seek the citizen's police brigade to assign you the correct papers?" He asked so innocently, with the smirk across his lips tellingly explaining the trouble he could accrue with the summoning of officials.

Blaise glared fixedly, "No. No that is not necessary. Shall I leave your young friend be?" And he simply extricated himself from the conversation and entered the carriage.

Harry grabbed Draco's arm and pulled him further along the streets, walking in silence until they reached the sight of pine groves along the roads.

"Draco..." Harry started, his face fiercely blushing, twining his fingers into the blond's own, "Draco, when you left... I know it is a sudden emotion, and I can only pray it isn't a fleeting whim, but, Draco, I wish to stay with you. And if it means leaving my post here, if it means never returning to Paris, then so be it."

Draco held a surprised look at the admission and abruptly leaned forward to kiss Harry, forcefully.

The roads from Paris were long and winding, and for the first time he felt he knew where he was going.

The summer season came quickly, heat pressing in and forcing Draco to dispatch of his nicer clothes once again, returning to simple cotton tunics and short breeches. Harry thought the notion silly until he, too, could no longer stand the heat. They carried on with merchants for a ways, taking quicker roads and bypassing the pine groves the blond once wandered in ignorance.

The Mediterranean coast was more gorgeous than Draco could remember it being. The gulls, the albatross calling out to him as though they had missed his absence, the waves clawing at the shore as though trying to pull him into the blissful blue waters.

They followed Draco's feet for three days and nights, as the memories pushed in on him to feel and remember every stone he walked past, holding the gypsy box reverently. Until they came upon the site.

La fille danse
Quand elle joue avec moi.

It was a small stone on the ledge, a minuscule etching of a bird in flight at its center. Draco had left before they sent Matilde to the heavens in a splash of ash and fire, the burial mound they set fire to for her - he knew - had been full of sweet sage and scented incenses. And now she was a part of the earth around the coast, the sea and the trees and the sand.

Harry stood back, giving Draco privacy as he took the gypsy box and set it before the stone, pulling the many feathers he'd collected across the continent, rubbing the bristles of each and recalling their memories.

He pulled them together and placed them, quills in the sand, before the stone; he took a stone and flint and set them aflame.

Often he had spent so much time considering Matilde and the gypsies he once knew, and he would forget what he discovered. The love presented in the hearts of Petrissa and Gaufried, who had taken him in. And the adventure he partook on his own, the only discovery centered on himself, of going to Paris to be with Harry.

And he knew there was still more out there. More to have and more to discover.

Et je pense que je l'aime des fois
Le silence, n'ose pas dis-donc

He whispered his thanks to the gypsy woman in the romanic tongues she had whispered as she prayed, and he touched the cards in his pocket, smiling softly against the salty wind.

He knew the southern coast would always have Matilde for him, and the north would carry him to his family of Petrissa and Gaufried. The west had proven the ability to hold his heart, he had found Harry, and Harry had found him, in Paris. But what did the east have?

He turned to face where the stars would rise soon, and soon after the sun would wake from the edge of the earth.

Quand on est ensemble
Mettre les mots
Sur la petite dodo

Harry grasped his hand and pulled him close for a deep kiss, before he too turned east and they walked, letting their hearts lead them.